


Drought

by T Verano (t_verano)



Series: Ivy's Tooth [2]
Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: Community: sentinel_thurs, M/M, Plants as themselves and as metaphors again why not, Sentinel Thursday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2020-03-08 19:15:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18900928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_verano/pseuds/T%20Verano
Summary: A brief prequel of sorts to the first fic in the series (Ivy's Tooth).An evening in the loft while Blair is away.





	Drought

**Author's Note:**

> written for Sentinel Thursday challenge 521 'drought'

"Fucking Timbuktu."

The words are spoken without heat and barely disturb the quiet of the loft. On the coffee table in front of the couch, a bottle of beer sits on its coaster, still cold enough that drops of condensation occasionally give in to gravity and slide down the amber glass. The remote control lies ready and waiting beside the coaster. Eight blocks away, over on Ballard, Carlucci's is packing a pizza into a cardboard box and easing it onto the stack of boxes already waiting inside the delivery boy's insulated carrier.

Fifteen minutes from now the loft will be filled with the heady scent of an onion- and black olive-laced Super Meat-Lover's Deluxe, will be filled with the familiar voices of the announcers who work the Jags' games and with the buzz of sound that rises from a crowd waiting for tip-off.

Forty-five minutes from now the phone will ring and Jim will mute the TV. He'll listen to the caller's greeting and grin. He'll deny — truthfully — having had doughnuts for breakfast, and confirm — also truthfully, but somewhat misleadingly — that he had vegetables with dinner. He'll tell the caller about Brown's latest prank and Connor's latest series of insults and the sweet play that set up Carlson's beautiful three-pointer in the first quarter. He'll listen to a recounting of the day's events in Peoria while he keeps an eye on the TV so he can pass along the score. Eventually he'll smile and say, "'Night, Chief," and hang up the phone. He'll sigh, once, quietly, and watch the rest of the game with the TV still on mute.

Three hours later he'll turn off the downstairs lights and stand for a while beside the balcony door, watching raindrops slide down the glass. When he finally turns away from the balcony, he'll glance down at the ficus on the floor near his feet, and when he starts up the stairs he'll glance across the room at the fern that sits on the key-basket table beside the loft door. After he shucks his clothes and changes to an old, loose pair of boxers and lies down on the bed, he'll eye the aspidistra on the dresser for a moment before he settles his gaze on the skylight and watches the rain.

An hour and a half later, he'll still be watching it.

Outside the dark and quiet loft, the rain will be falling for hours. Inside, everything will be waiting for the drought to end.


End file.
